


Rush Writing Exercise

by BrokenHazelEyes



Series: OT4- Greg/Ed/Sam/Spike [41]
Category: Flashpoint
Genre: Bad Writing, Full of Mistakes, Might Not Want To Read This, Other, Rush Writing, The Author Regrets Everything, Writing Exercise
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-17
Updated: 2015-09-17
Packaged: 2018-04-21 04:22:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,196
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4814855
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BrokenHazelEyes/pseuds/BrokenHazelEyes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Pretty much just needed to get something down on paper, just clear my head of all these fic ideas, so I sat down for like forty minutes and smashed this out. It's horrible, sorry. Just needed to write something, thus this was born.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Rush Writing Exercise

**Author's Note:**

> I have no comments. 
> 
> A/N: Don't own Flashpoint, nor characters. My story, so please don't repost anywhere. Thanks!

Spike, scrambling back into the air vent and pulling the cover shut, could feel electricity prickling in the oxygen—it was a rush, something even more erotic and personal than arousal. Heart pounding, belly quaking with tension, and fingers itching for proper wire-strippers, the bomb tech fled through the series of heavy ducting and made his way back to the “command room”. Really, it was just one of the various areas he was hiding in and using to store needed materials.

Exactly one minute after he’d left the discrete package behind a glass store front, an explosion rocked the metal venting Spike was hiding in.

Screams echoed, the rough male terrorist now high-pitched, and the brunette scrambled out of the venting and into the secured room. There were copper wires, needle-nosed pliers, wire cutters and an array of chemicals and batteries along with cheap clocks. All materials he’d nicked out from under the terrorists’ noses as they prowled the devastated and blood-stained mall only graced by twenty survivors.

The rest were splayed out, uncovered and disrespected, over the scuffed linoleum.

It had been 28 hours since he’d slipped out of the crowd and wound up stuck in the mall but undetected by the extremists. 24 of those hours were spent constructing crude bombs, setting up traps of nails and other easy-to-find projectiles, and desperately trying to hack into every form of communication he could get his hands on. However, he’d only been able to get to the computer once, just after the men stormed and killed and caught those left breathing, and that had nearly cost his both his freedom and life.

He’d only managed to tap out a message, to Greg, saying _terrorists in mall - mass casualty._ Then he’d been forced from the room, flying through the corridor faster than he had on the SRU try-outs, and scrambled into the venting with sweaty fingers.

Spike had passed bodies, off all ages and races, still bundled up in their winter-weather, Christmas clothing. He felt terrible, leaping over them like mere obstacles, but he couldn’t risk leaving bloody-footprints behind.

Picking up a string of copper, carefully separating the color-coded insulated wires, and quickly started building another device—now, if he could just get his hands on a gun…

 

Greg clenched his fists, watching as Ed stood so still he shook, as he heard a witness—a survivor—sobbing to a uniform about the death count and the armed gunmen with their faces displayed proudly. Sam was up in one of the nearby buildings, finding a sniper perch, swearing up a storm.

“ _I swear to God, Spike,_ ” the blonde was hissing, snapping together his rifle with too much force, “ _you better not try and be a hero…_ ”

“He might still be in the main control room,” Wordy shook the tension from his shoulders, watching as police set up a perimeter.

“No, he would have contacted us if he was.” Ed said softly, his gaze unfocused and off in the distance.

“Is his phone working?” Jules asked, typing furiously from within the command truck, “Can you track it?”

“No,” Ed shook his head, but didn’t add that the bomb tech had left it at Greg’s house, “Doesn’t have it on him.”

 

Hands shaking, Spike peered down at the body at his feet. The baseball bat, still gripped tight, hadn’t left any marks in the thick black hair. Only a slight depression, where it’d cracked against the terrorist’s skull.

Taking out a zip-tie, after checking for a pulse and biting his lip when there was one,—was it bad that he wouldn’t have felt guilty had the man wasted away on this grimy floor?—Spike tied the man’s hands and feet before dragging him into a storage closet and securing him to metal shelving.

Stolen gun now in hand, Spike grabbed the bomb he’d thrown together and slipped down the hallways towards the center of the mall.

 

“What if he’s gone?” Greg whispered, peering at Ed carefully, and listened to Sam’s impatient shifting as the man watched for Scorpio.

“Have you met Spike, Greg?” Ed pressed his lips together in a half-hearted smile. “I bet our boy’s in there raising hell.”

 

“I hope this works,” Spike rubbed his thumb over the delicate design, gnawing at his lip and watching the scene carefully from the floor above. A tiny pager was held in his hand; the detonator to the firebomb he’d planted far enough from the hostages to not burn them—down the hallway, towards the water fountain he’d poured nail polish remover in.

It was a miracle he’d gotten close enough to not be spotted or killed in cold blood.

The bomb tech wished he had a flash grenade, or something close to it, but this would have to work. It was all he had; his only shot.

Taking a deep breath, Spike pressed the button.

 

The SRU team heard the screaming from outside the mall.

 

Fire exploded from down the hallway, expanding to consume the entire water fountain. It was pretty contained, for a chemical fire, and a perfect distraction.

The bomb tech watched the entire area scramble—terrorists and hostages alike—but the extremists pulled together and bunched up like it would protect them. Then they screamed at the hostages, threatening death if they tried to run.

So Spike grabbed the gun he’d stolen, taking aim, and fired.

 

Greg kicked the SRU van’s tire unforgivingly when the shots rang out and the screaming got louder—then silenced, and everything was still.

 

Spike watched the last terrorist fall, clean shots that had kept them from taking out any hostages, and finally let the bone-deep exhaustion hit him, fully.

Until he realized it wasn’t just the exhaustion bogging down his eye lids.

It was, also, the gunshot to his shoulder and the graze across the left side of his skull.

Spike collapsed against the linoleum.

 

Sam watched, from the sniper position, as two SRU teams swarmed the mall. Anxiety gripped every one of his organs, and tore at his throat.

Until he saw a member of team two, a large-built man, jog out of the mall entrance with someone slung limply over his shoulder—shouting, but Sam couldn’t see the words his lips created.

But he knew immediately who it was when Ed’s breathing paused.

“ _Spike!_ ”

Sam watched through the sniper rifle lens, unable to move, as his lover was loaded, no movement from the bomb tech, into an ambulance.

 

Team One heard all the tearful words on the television as they sat, nervously tapping and restless, in the hospital’s waiting area while Spike lay in some surgical bay.

“He saved us,” the survivors said tearfully, looking at frazzled-reporters with grateful eyes. “The entire time he was setting up bombs and stuff. He didn’t leave us. He could have gotten out, but he stayed and saved us.”

“He’s a hero,” A little girl smiled with hands fisted in her dress, a bandage around her head covering a good-sized laceration, “my mommy says so too.”

“I just want to thank him…” a father sighed, holding his family close.

 

“He’ll make it,” Were the only words Greg, Ed and Sam cared about.

 

 

 


End file.
